


a light that never goes out

by mikeandwill



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mild Language, Mutual Pining, Suggestive Themes, but doesn't know where to start, theo has a lot to say, they're soft, this is the first time i've written them so pls don't attack me thanks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 15:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14595933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikeandwill/pseuds/mikeandwill
Summary: “Out with it, Potter.” Boris says, he holds the cigarette out to me, and I take it tentatively. We’ve done this so many times before, like an old habit, passing it back and forth until it ran out whilst talking about god knows what. This time, though, I’m far too aware that the cigarette has touched his lips when it’s sitting in between my own.I shrug again, and I ought to stop. I know it annoys him. “You are good for me, more than you think you are.”





	a light that never goes out

**Author's Note:**

> uh hello all, i wanted to try and write some boreo bc the world is deprived of fics and i'm too damn attached to them so here we are! i apologise if it sucks, i tried. this is dedicated to vic who is pretty much the only person who tolerates my screaming about them hehe enjoy :)

Something has been on my mind for awhile, like a distant thought. I’ve always known it was there, but I never wanted to reach for it and pick it apart to find out what it meant; because, quite honestly, my brain stopping on the thought for a second too long was enough to make my head spin. 

 

I’ve been thinking about it ever since that night, when I woke up after my mind was plagued with images of the day my life changed, grey smoke, blood on my hands, a deafening ringing sound bouncing around in my head like a pinball machine. That night when he pulled me closer to him, his thin arm draped across my waist. The images subsided, and I was weirdly at peace. I felt his breath against the back of my neck, making a cold shivering sensation travel down my spine, even though that was the warmest I’d ever felt. 

 

_ Shh, Potter.  _ He almost touched the skin where my shirt had ridden up.  _ Is only me. _

 

It was only him, exactly like he said, and it was only me. It was only the both of us. Usually we laid back to back, Popchyk between us; an unspoken barrier that we had perhaps we had come up with ourselves without realising it - because we were too scared for anything to happen. Too scared to admit the thoughts pushed away in the backs of our brains. That night, though, there was no dog. It was just us - and he was so close - every time he exhaled I felt a shiver travel over my whole body. And that was when I knew. 

 

It was as simple as that.

 

Well, not  _ that _ simple. I could go into tremendous and lengthy descriptions of exactly what I felt and exactly when if I wanted to, yet I feel like that might take me too long. It’s strange, because more often than not, I have issues with grasping my feelings, I can never explain them correctly. Whenever I go to say something, I feel like a brick wall has been placed right in front of me, one I would never be able to get through no matter how hard I tried. Then everything collapses and I’m left in an endless sea of blackness. 

 

This time it’s different, this time it’s more like a door. I’m faced with a choice, to open it or leave it closed. I could even lock it if I wanted to, put padlocks and chains and warning signs all over it. Leaving it closed meant ignoring everything I had ever felt for… someone I had come to know all too well. And, of course, opening it meant admitting it, and at this point I’m gripping the handle. 

 

So, here we are - sat on the swings in our own secluded playground - except this time we decided against experimenting with some random drugs we would’ve managed to get our hands on. Only a few bottles of beer between us, empty ones laying sideways on the floor and half empty ones in our hands. We’re swinging forwards and backwards slowly, not taking our feet off the ground. The squeaking sound of metal against metal in the rhythm of a steady heartbeat, although mine is quite the opposite. If my heart was in control of this swing, I’d go flying off in a matter of seconds.

 

“Potter,” Boris says, the familiar nickname making me feel lightheaded. His voice made me feel lightheaded, the stupid roughness of it, the thick accent. Something that’ll probably stick in my head for years to come. “What was it like?” 

 

I turn to look at him, but only a fraction, like I’m trying to look through the arm of the glasses that earnt the very nickname. His dark hair blows around slightly in the wind, it’s a bit too long, but I’d never suggest cutting it. Bruises lay under his shadowy eyes, I can’t remember seeing him without any, and he has a few cuts and scars too. He’d sit down and tell me how and why he got each one if I asked him to. 

 

_ This… this one here, most of them actually, were from Russia. These from Ukraine, this one was from Australia, long time ago. And this? This one’s from my dad, yesterday.  _

 

“What was what like?” 

 

He then pulls out a cigarette and sticks it in between his lips - which look like they’ve been split far too many times - and lights it, eyes focusing on the small flame a little longer than normal like it was some sort of lifeline. “Before,” He shrugs and gestures vaguely after inhaling, then breathes out steadily, smoke clouding over his features for a few moments. But it doesn’t matter if I can’t see him clearly, since I have every angle of his face memorised. “Before we met.” 

 

I frown at his words briefly, as I’d never imagined Boris - of all people - asking me this sort of question. I don’t quite know how to answer, because when I’m with Boris, I manage to wipe the past from my mind most of the time. Of course, with the help of  _ a lot _ of drugs and alcohol, but Boris himself always had played an important part in taking my mind off things. 

 

“Different.” I nod, not knowing how else I should put it.

 

“How so?”

 

“Well, of course it was different, you dumb shit.” I can’t help myself, but I know he wouldn’t take it to heart. He never does. 

 

Boris puts his hands up defensively, the cigarette waving around as he holds it between his index and middle finger, a trail of smoke ghosting behind it. “Only asking, I am curious.” He sniffles, and then wipes his nose. I’ve already noticed there’s something different about him today, the way he’s speaking and the way he’s sat. I don’t know why. “I’m not allowed to be curious?” 

 

“Sure you are,” I say, finishing off the bottle of beer I’d been drinking out of. I dropped it onto the floor near the other empty ones, and I wasn’t even drunk. After drinking so much with Boris recently, alcohol had come to affect me much less in small amounts. Whereas, if you saw me the previous year, half a bottle of beer was enough to get me on the verge of wasted. “It’s just— you make a lot of things different.” 

 

“I do?”

 

I nod my head, and push my glasses up my nose. I don’t want to look at him, because he’ll probably look like he expects me to explain what I mean, and I’m not sure how to. 

 

“So I’m  _ bad _ different? No good for you.” Boris nods whilst looking straight at me with his stupid brown eyes, and then I get the urge to reach for him. It takes me a moment to stop myself. 

 

I shake my head, almost too quickly. “No, no— No, Boris you’re—” I stumble on my words, and I can feel his expectant eyes on me, waiting to see what I’ll say. Maybe he’s waiting to see if I’ll fuck this whole thing up, because he knows what I want to say. But he couldn’t  _ possibly  _ know that, could he? How could he? I know Boris can do a lot of things but I doubt one of them is reading minds. 

 

“Out with it, Potter.” Boris says, he holds the cigarette out to me, and I take it tentatively. We’ve done this so many times before, like an old habit, passing it back and forth until it ran out whilst talking about god knows what. This time, though, I’m far too aware that the cigarette has touched his lips when it’s sitting in between my own. 

 

I shrug again, and I ought to stop. I know it annoys him. “You are good for me, more than you think you are.”

 

“Really?” He says, and that’s when we make eye contact. “I believe I am no good for anyone.”  

 

I try to keep my eyes on his own, but I feel all too consciously aware of everything when his eyes flick around to look at my every inch of my face, like it’s the last time he’ll ever see it, and he wants to remember me. It’s the first time anyone has ever made me feel like this. My skin feels like it’s burning, but at the same time I can feel shivers like I’m stood on top of a mountain above a stormcloud. 

 

I can’t help but look at my hands, the floor, the broken slide. Anywhere that isn’t him. “Don’t say that, Boris.” 

 

“And why not? It is true. I’ve always believed that I’m not wanted, wherever I go. And I have been a lot of places.” Boris explains, and I hear him laugh to himself. He reaches over to retrieve the cigarette, and his fingers brushed against my own. He brings it to his lips and takes a drag, and then breathes the smoke out just centimetres away from my face, because he’s still got his eyes fixed on me. “But fuck it. Right, Potter? Nobody wants me really, but that’s okay.” 

 

I say it before I can stop myself. “I do.” 

 

He looks at me, and I swear the world completely pauses. Everything comes to a standstill except us, in our own little bubble in that rusty, old playground. I’m all too familiar with the feeling of being nervous, I know all the symptoms like the back of my hand. Increased heartbeat, bodily shaking, clammy hands, breathing difficulty, dry mouth, dizziness, muscle tension, hot or cold flushes… The list goes on. 

 

Well, it did in that science book I read once, during that time in class where Boris and I were lab partners. Our heads together leaning over our shared book, him telling me through a whisper that he already knew all of this  _ bullshit _ and it was pointless that we were wasting our time on it. Boris is one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, and it always frustrates me how people underestimate him. At school, sometimes I get the urge to yell:  _ Fuck you! Boris knows more shit than you ever will, he’s smart and he’s funny and he’s- he’s… he’s my…  _

 

He’s my what?

 

What do I  _ want _ him to be?

 

Being familiar with the symptoms of nervousness doesn’t actually help me in this situation, because it only becomes a checklist. There’s something different about it though, something that separates this feeling from anything I’d ever felt before. Yes, my heart is racing at a hundred miles an hour, my hands are sweaty, I’m  _ definitely _ having difficulty breathing… But the different thing is, I’m starting to feel a little lighter. Like there was this weight holding me down, and now I’m being released, feeling free. 

 

Boris Pavlikovsky is never someone who is at a loss for words. He always has something to say, whether it be a witty comment to make me laugh or an anecdote from his travels whispered into the back of my neck to help me sleep, there’s always  _ something.  _ This time, though, this time he just looks at me for an unreadable amount of time. Slightly frowning, lips parted, forgetting to blink, the cigarette between his fingers slowly disintegrating. I begin to wonder if what I had said was stupid, and if I should cover it up saying I meant it in a different way, but it was only the truth. And  _ fuck _ , am I sick of hiding from it. 

 

I can only return the look, and to my relief, a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “What do you mean by that, Potter?”

 

“I mean,” I start, thinking over the right words in my head. “If I didn’t want you then why would you be here?” 

 

I feel like I’ve lost what I was trying to say, and in all honesty, the two words had hardly any meaning unless he truly understood me. I know he does, he always does. Sometimes we don’t even need to say anything to communicate, we just know, and at this point I’m hoping he manages to figure it out himself; because I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. Not yet. 

 

_ Theodore Decker, you are such a coward. _

 

“Because I do what I want too much.” Boris sighs, and finally he parts with the cigarette, throwing it on the ground and stomping it out with his black combat boot. “You can tell me to go if you wish, Theo. Just say _ ‘Fuck off Boris! I never liked you, you miserable shit!’ _ and I’ll leave you. At least, for a few days.” He starts laughing to himself, and it’s music to my ears, I almost end up forgetting to laugh along. 

 

He stops laughing when he realises I’m not, he’s noticed that I’m deep in thought, and he looks concerned for me. I hate it when he looks like he’s worrying about me. He stands up from his seated position on the swing, making it squeak a little bit, and walks closer to where I’m still sat down. He leans against the metal bar that holds the swingset up and crosses his arms, looking down at me, like he’s trying to read my every thought. 

 

Then I realise, that was one of the few times he called me by my actual name. 

 

“Yeah but, Boris…” I say tearing my eyes away from my knotted hands, I look up at him, and he’s  _ a lot _ closer than I thought. “What if that’s not what I want?” 

 

He frowns. “Then what is it that you want?”

 

I’m almost forced to think about it then, to think about exactly what I want. Recently I kept telling myself that what I wanted didn’t matter, because really I’m just an insignificant human being who is passing through life with no purpose or guaranteed happy ending. But with Boris, I feel like I’m important, like I matter to someone. I feel like I can see a happy ending, as crazy as it sounds. I see and feel happiness in him, and it’s always been something I can never manage to come across. Maybe I just got lucky this time.

 

I think back to specific times where I had felt that happiness… Running from the security guards at the mall, meeting back at my house when we got separated, emptying our pockets and just laughing with each other. Days laying on the sofa in my living room watching crappy TV, Boris making stupid commentary that would make me laugh so hard I’d want to throw up. He fell asleep with his head resting on my lap once. I remember almost every night, lying in bed with him next to me. He always woke up when I did, it was like he somehow knew I needed him, and he was there. 

 

That’s what I want, I want all of that; because that’s my happiness. I will admit, Boris has his faults, but he’s the closest thing I’ve found to a home in a long time. 

 

I feel myself getting emotional after that brief reflection, and even more so when I look at his face. His stupid, pretty face, looking right at me like I’m somehow important. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” I say, despite the fact that I just worked everything out in my head. At least, I think I have. 

 

“Why don’t you already know?” He looks down to the floor, and I swear I’ve never seen him like this before. Boris, confident Boris, without a care in the world… looks like he’s waiting for me to speak his fate. He looks like he wants me to say something specific, and I can only hope that it’s also the thing I want to say. 

 

I sigh, finding it extremely hard to explain my feelings. I usually just avoid it completely, but now I  _ want _ to make it work, I  _ need _ to say something for once. “Because— because you’re just… you’re just you, and you’re messing with my head.”

 

I know I’m clearly showing signs of my nervousness and blatant confusion, but that’s the thing. I’m not confused, I know what I’m feeling and I know what I want. So why is this so hard? Why is everything so much more difficult when he’s stood in front of me? 

 

“Potter,” He smiles down towards the floor and then shakes his head. He looks up, but his eyes are looking anywhere but my face. He mumbles something in russian under his breath before saying: “You are being vague.” 

 

I stand up from the swing a little too quickly, and I’m surprised I don’t pass out. Why can’t I just say it? What more do I have to lose? I could lose him, he could just laugh in my face and go and hang out with some of his other friends. But why would he do that? Why would he stay with me all the time if he didn’t want to? He obviously wants to, he said so himself, but somehow I have a hard time believing it. I think of all the things that have happened between us, the things we’d never speak of once they’d happened; I wanted to say something so bad. I never did, because he never did. Maybe it was because he was scared. 

 

_ Are you as scared as I am? _

 

I lean back on my heels so I’m not too close to his face, the heat is getting to me and I feel dizzy. I have to stop myself from grabbing onto him. He’s looking at me again, and I’m looking at him. I’m looking at his knotted black hair that falls in his eyes, his sun kissed cheeks doused with freckles, his dark eyes that are trying to tell me something, his lips… why am I looking at them? What the  _ fuck _ am I doing?

 

He’s waiting for me to say something. Spit it out, Theo. Say it. Who the fuck cares? Just tell him.  _ Fuck it. Right, Potter? _

 

“I like you, Boris. Okay?” 

 

It slips out without another thought. 

 

I wait for his reaction for a few moments, my heart threatening to leap out of my chest. He isn’t saying anything. Why isn’t he saying anything? Eventually, he frowns again and adjusts his standing position. I can’t even make myself look away from him now, it’s like I’m stuck. Maybe I’ll never be able to look away from him again. 

 

“Well, I should hope so—” He starts, but I cut him off.

 

“No, Boris.” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose under my glasses. “I mean I— I  _ like _ you.”

 

When I say that, his eyes soften and he starts to smile. I try not to visibly sigh of relief, I hate how he makes me feel like this, but then again I don’t. I love how he makes me feel, and I never want to lose that. 

 

“Oh, I see.” He finally says, bashful. Then he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, like he’s trying to find his ordinary self again. Do I really make him change like this? I can count at least three visible symptoms, so do I actually manage to make him nervous? He clears his throat and looks at me again. “Is that why you want me to stay?” 

 

Now that I feel like I can breathe, now that I’m sure he didn’t react weirdly, at least not yet; I speak without messing up.

 

“I want you to stay because I can’t live without you next to me.” 

 

It’s true. In fact, I’m certain that is the most honest thing I have said in my life. Now I’m glad he knows it, and I need to make sure he believes it. He steps closer to me, so I’m forced to look up at him. He lifts his hands up to either side of my face and holds the sides of my glasses, altering their position on my face so they sit properly. I can almost feel his breath against my skin he’s that close. We’ve been close before, we always seem to be, but this time it’s different. 

 

“Well now you are next to me, what will you do about it?”

 

Naturally, I do the most logical thing. In a way it felt like he was asking for it without saying it directly; the things he said, how close he stood. Again, it was like our unspoken communication, unmistakable looks, ones I could read like a book. This look in particular, eyes cast down and a stupid smirk…  _ Isn’t it about time you kissed me, Potter? _

 

So that’s what I do. 

 

I reach up and press my lips to his, answering his unspoken question. It’s strange because it’s been something I have been wanting to do for so long, and yet it’s so much better than I can possibly imagine. I never pictured myself initiating it, but here I am, kissing this boy in a playground in the middle of a desert. The boy who I cared too much for, and it feels so  _ fucking _ good. 

 

My hands are now placed around the back of his neck and I fiddle with the ends of his hair, it reminds me of when I combed my fingers through it when he fell asleep on me that one time. His hands are on my waist, and it reminds me of when he pulled me closer to him that night. Reassuring me it was just him, but he’s so much  _ more _ than just him. At this moment, he feels like everything.

 

When we pull away, quite reluctantly but desperate for breath, we rest our foreheads together and look at each other like we’ve never looked at each other before. Things are different now, but in the best possible way. Eventually I fall into his arms, and we stand there hugging like we’ll lose each other if we ever let go. 

 

“I can not believe you go soft and make me feel like this, you fucker.” Boris laughs, and I smile to myself.

 

I lean back for a second so I can look at him. “Shut the fuck up and let me.”

 

I then close my eyes and lean into his chest, burying myself in his scent of cigarettes and alcohol, that was weirdly comforting. I never want this moment to end, I never want to let it go. I listen to his heartbeat, and I’m reminded of a familiar tune, the tune of one of the songs we always listen to. Sharing the earbuds plugged into my iPod, lying next to each other on my bed like it was our little hideaway.

 

_ But if you close the door, the night could last forever.  _

  
  
  



End file.
